Emulsion
by SashaLikaMusica
Summary: Perhaps inspired by the dire state of their world and their old shared obsession over the Boy Who Lived, Colin Creevey brings Romilda Vane to Madam Puttifoot's Tea Shop on Valentine's Day, 1998. To her surprise, Romilda discovers that perhaps this isn't the worst of holiday outings.


**A/N: Takes place February of 1998, canon setting. Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition.**

 **Round: 5**

 **Team: Ballycastle Bats**

 **Position: Keeper**

 **Prompts: Romance (team prompt), setting: Madam Puttifoot's (chosen prompt)  
**

 **Words: 1,096 according to Pages**

* * *

She's not entirely certain why she accepted this invitation; they occupy opposite sides of the social circle, after all, and their positions in the hierarchy are color-negatives; she has always been the leader, and he the sidekick. He and his friends exclaim over the differences between the Magical and Muggle worlds ad nauseam and holler too excitedly during Quidditch matches. He also spends an unhealthy amount of time craning his neck to stare at people during dinner, a trait she finds distinctly childish. In addition, he has habit of scarfing down his mashed potatoes at a ridiculously alarming rate.

Putting those petty grievances aside, though, Romilda decides that this is . . . pleasant, for lack of a more thrilling word. At the moment, she's simply amused that he brought her _here._ Madam Puttifoot's is renowned for its kitschiness and overly exuberant holiday decor, and only a certain type of girl — the likes of Lavender Brown among them — tend to frequent it. Of course, no one knows of Romilda's secret attraction to all things repulsively girly — or so she thought before this afternoon. Maybe he has a better read on her than she originally presumed.

Across the table from her, Colin glances up from his menu in time to meet her eyes and shoot her a nervous grin. Smiling back reflexively, Romilda is surprised to find that the expression is at least partially genuine. Perhaps she needs to put things in perspective; there are much worse ways to spend Valentine's Day afternoon than closeted in a cozy tea shop with Colin Creevey.

"Do you know what you're ordering?" He manages not to stammer when he asks her, but the strain of the effort is visible in the tightness of his brow. It's a valiant attempt at appearing cavalier, one that would succeed but for the anxious tapping of his foot beneath the garish tablecloth.

"Not yet," she replies, tone equally casual. If he's going to make an effort to dispel the nervous tension, she should at least extend him the same courtesy. Besides, it's apparent that he's a good deal more agitated than she is; the worst this excursion can amount to in her eyes is a mildly tedious afternoon. He has his pride at stake, and she doesn't underestimate the courage that it probably took him to ask her to accompany him here.

"I was thinking of getting the blueberry scones," he supplies helpfully. He has begun to fidget with the leg of his trousers, a nervous habit that she remembers noticing in Herbology, which he's pants at — something they apparently have in common.

"It's hard to decide," is all she comes up with, considering the vast menu with its multitudinous fruit-based dessert options, but Colin's instant reaction doesn't match her casual tone. Immediately, he folds the menu and sits up straighter, an expression of simultaneous defeat and relief pinching his eyebrows together. As he begins to shake his head, she realizes that he has interpreted her words as a dismissal of his company. "This was stupid of me," he starts sadly, beginning to rise from his chair; "I'm sorry, I don't know why I — you obviously have better things to be doing than sitting here with — this was stupid, I — I'll just go — " As he begins to pass by her chair, she snags him by the shirtsleeve. He stops, his expression a pitiful picture of anguish backlit by reluctant curiosity.

"No." Romilda finds that her voice is uncommonly warm. "I mean — don't go, Colin, okay? I'm . . . this isn't so bad."

It's not the heartiest of encouragements, but it's honest, and she can sense that to express anything less right now would be tremendously insulting. Looking into his resigned copper eyes and seeing the uncertainty there, she feels an emotion less of pity and a little closer to companionship rise in her chest. This _isn't_ so bad; _he_ isn't so bad, and even if he doesn't fulfill her Valentine's fantasy of being swept off her feet by the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Go-AWOL, she finds herself somewhat enamored of him.

He's sweet and obviously inexperienced, but she sees behind his eyes a steadfastness that has never been apparent before. There's more maturity there than she has given him credit for; there remains, of course, a trace of the eager little boy with whom she was Sorted, but the feverish enthusiasm has mellowed into a quieter sort of cheerfulness. Her gaze is drawn to the muted shadow of stubble on his jaw, and she realizes that she's never _noticed_ him before.

An uncertain statue beside the table, he watches her for a moment before something in his expression clears and he sinks back into his chair.

"I think I'll go with the scones," he says easily, sending her a small smile. She mirrors the look and briefly peruses the menu before nodding and setting it down.

"Apple croissant for me, then," she decides. "Madam Puttifoot's speciality." Their eyes meet again, and there's a brief pause where their gazes seem stuck, unable to pull away, until at last Colin's eyes flicker downwards to his teacup. Romilda's follow, and a quiet, embarrassed laugh escapes them both.

"So . . . I heard you write," he mentions once they have placed their order. "Are you hoping to be an novelist?" Romilda smiles around her mouthful of croissant.

"I was thinking more along the lines of exploring journalism," she tells him once she has swallowed. "I was actually considering starting some sort of," she pauses, discreetly lowering her voice, "underground newspaper here, one to rally the students against the Carrows and Snape, boost morale, you know — maybe even get Potter back here to help us overthrow the lot of them. What do you think?" Colin's eyes light up, and she thinks for a moment that it's at the mention of Potter — she's not the only one with an obsession, she remembers — but he leans back a moment later with his eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief far too calculated to have anything to do with their old idol.

"A newspaper needs a good photographer," he points out, the words accompanied by a meaningful eyebrow raise. A slow grin spreads over her face.

"So it does," she agrees. Neither of them dare to say anything more, not where other ears might be listening, but they share a few more knowing glances over the doilies and pink-patterned teacups, and relishing the flavor of her croissant, Romilda realizes that this little venture might turn out to be better than not-so-bad.


End file.
